


Embers

by Annamelia



Category: Star Trek: Picard
Genre: Gen, Mostly Fluff, campfire cookout, very mild angst, wistful storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:41:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25555228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annamelia/pseuds/Annamelia
Summary: A moonlight cookout at the Troi-Riker Ranch
Relationships: Elnor & Kestra Troi-Riker, Soji Asha & Kestra Troi-Riker, Soji Asha/Elnor (Star Trek)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17
Collections: Star Trek Fandom Potluck Collection





	Embers

The fire burned low, barely more than embers. It had been a long day, and a glorious one. Battles had been fought, monsters slain, kingdoms freed, and princes rescued, and all in time for supper.

The man stirred the coals with a short stick, sending sparks swirling into the cool, night air.

“This place is so different than where I was raised. There the air is dusty, and dry. The days are scorching and the nights are cold. The forests are a different shade of green. The game is less plentiful. Even the fires burn a slightly different color.”

They watched him, sleepily, wrapped together in a thick woollen blanket. A girl dressed in strips of camouflage fabric over comfortable clothing, broad lines of face paint surrounding her features. A woman, slender and dark haired, fingers absent-mindedly playing with a simple silver necklace of interlocking rings.

“On Vashti, even quiet campfires are risky. There are gangs, and they are dangerous. They might take offense to the smell, or to the light, or to your presence.”

“What would they do?” The girl asked innocently, child of a planet where she could roam the woods without fear.

“If you are lucky, they might do nothing.” He smiled at them through the darkness. “But most likely they will make you leave, one way or another.”

The girl sat up straighter, her corner of the blanket slipping slightly. “What way?”

He looked beyond her to the woman sitting in her shadow, his smile faltering slightly. “It would almost certainly involve violence. I'd prefer not to describe it to you.”

Huffing, she rolled her eyes and leaned back against the woman . “I’m not a baby. I caught the bunnicorn you’re cooking. _And_ I butchered it. I know about violence.”

Slowly, he shook his head. ”Not like this. You know clean violence. Hunting for food, sparring for sport, or defense. The violence of brutality is outside your experience, and I'd like it to stay that way.”

She leaned forward again, resting her arms on her knees. “I guess. I mean, I’ve read a lot of books. I’ve heard a lot of stories from mom and dad.” She looked up at him from under her lashes, a solemn expression on her face. “But I guess it’s not the same as experiencing it first hand.”

The girl observed him, silently.

He could almost feel it, like eyes on his soul. He could have believed the girl was somehow trying to compel him to say more. He knew her mother was half Betazed, wondered how much of the empath-telepath she had inherited. His resolve held firm.

Until the woman spoke, softly.

“Is there maybe one story you could tell? Something not so brutal?” She smiled at him, and it was like being submerged beneath a crashing wave, knocking down all his defenses. The light twinkling in her eyes captivating him, hypnotising him, until he was smiling back at her.

He took a deep breath.

“Of course. But I warn you both, it isn’t a happy story, and I'm not good at embellishments.”

He leaned forward and poked at the fire again, shifting the foil-wrapped parcel to a hotter bit of the fire and adding some more cut logs.

“I will tell you a story, and you will know that it is true, because I was raised by the Qowat Milat, and we do not lie.”

He spoke formally, the storyteller instructing the listener. The man sat back, cross legged, and half-closed his eyes.

“It begins with a child, hardly more than a baby. His parents loved him, or so he was told, although he could never remember it for himself. He was part of a proud and powerful people. One day, a great man came to warn the people a danger was coming. Some chose not to believe. They did not prepare and did not see the danger until it was too late. They died.”

With this he pulled a stick from the fire, a cherry-red ember burning at its tip. Arching his eyebrows, he pushed the stick into the earth, snuffing it out.

“Some believed and made their own preparations, fled to distant places taking with them only that which they could carry. They lived, but they were diminished.”

He pulled another smouldering stick from the fire, setting it to the side on a stone. As it cooled, the ember’s glow slowly faded. He waited until he again caught the girl’s eyes.

“Some, a very few, believed and worked together to save the others.”

He took several more sticks from the fire, leaning the burning ends against each other. The girl watched, eyes wide, as the glow grew brighter. Before it could burst back into flame, he scooped up a handful of dirt and smothered it.

“Their work was in vain, because life is unfair, and some causes are hopeless. The boy child’s parents were part of this third group.”

He caught the woman’s eyes this time. Her smile had gone, replaced by a great _something_ he was almost afraid to name.

“From this group, many were lost. Only a fraction survived. The boy’s parents were not among them. They had been prepared for the risk of their own deaths, and for safety had given him over into the care of the great man. The great man promised to deliver him to a place of refuge, to find him a home with others of his people where he could grow strong and be at peace. And, for the most part, he kept his promise.”

They sat together in silence for a few moments.

The girl spoke first. “What happened to the boy?”

He smiled at her. “That story isn’t finished yet, so it’s not ready.” His smile grew into a grin. “But I think the bunnicorn might be.”

Carefully he pulled the parcel from the fire, unwrapping the meat. A delicious aroma wafted around their small campfire. He tore the foil into smaller pieces, sharing the meat between their improvised plates.

“I’m not dumb. I know the boy is you.” The girl spoke around a full mouth. “Picard’s told me about you before.”

“Then why did you ask what happened to the boy?”

She grinned at him. “I wanted to know if he got a happy ending. All the best stories end with a happy ending.”

The woman smiled, leaned forward, and kissed him. “I think it depends on where you end the story. I’d say he’s got a happy ‘for now’.”

He gently brushed her face with his thumb, awed all over again.

“Yes, he’s happy now.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have struggled more than I would care to admit with any creative endeavour in the last couple of months. But the only way out of writers/artists block is through. I hope this little story was enjoyable :)


End file.
